


The Gospel Truth: Such a Cold, Hard Thing

by thatsrightdollface



Series: Another Act: Saiouma Stories from After [1]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry, Kind of a songfic, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, and I'm just about to quote it in the summary, because I reference a song in some of the imagery/the title, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: “No morning colder than the first frostNo friends closer than the ones we’ve lostNothing sharper than a serpent’s toothNothing harder than the gospel truth…” –“Rain in SoHo”, The Mountain GoatsOr, Kokichi walks Shuichi home after a day at school.





	The Gospel Truth: Such a Cold, Hard Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! :D I hope you enjoy this story if you read it~ It's actually not the first draft I've done about a ghost Kokichi out in the living world, but it's the one I'm happiest with so far. I just keep thinking about it, and wanting to express the images somehow... I hope he's at peace, post-canon, tbh. But. A fic, anyway!! 
> 
> Have a wonderful day!! I won't be able to get online as often over the next week or so, so I wanted to post this before all the business starts.

It had been snowing all that day, and the sidewalks were a mess of dirty footprints.  Kokichi Oma had seen a couple of Shuichi’s classmates slip, actually, clutching at their bags, crumpling worksheets and/or love letters up in their mitten-y hands.  Kokichi didn’t leave behind any footprints of his own, not anymore. Sometimes he couldn’t even will the blood splatters off his shoes; they soaked down his back, too, all aching and smeary like after Kaito had dragged him over to the hydraulic press. Slathering his blood around nice and thick, like a trail of red thread leading deeper into the labyrinth...  Helping make their whole trick possible, even though it hurt like a special woozy, desperate hell and he’d been fading out fast.  He’d thought maybe they could trick Monokuma, trick the whole fucking killing game, all that jazz.  Not like it had  _worked_   _right_ , anyway, but the crossbow wounds decided to come back every now and then. Something scorched all through Kokichi, when they did, like remembered poison.  

He was only just holding his imagined body together, sometimes, and other times he dreamed.  He liked to think that dreaming might have been a little like what his afterlife would be, when it finally came for him.  By all rights, Kokichi thought he should have flickered out when the killing game ended, but his reaper was taking their sweet time, apparently.  Say, you know if the reaper’s thirty years late you get your eternal rest for free?  It’s true! 

The dreaming didn’t hurt, was the thing.  It had just about as many possibilities as a lie, as a story - that nebulous, gentle well of kind untruths Kokichi had tried to get his classmates to understand. Sometimes his gang was there, D.I.C.E. with their playful crimes and laughing, completely impossible memories. Sometimes the Ultimate Detective, Shuichi Saihara, was chasing them, and sometimes he was one of their number, falling asleep with his head cradled on Kokichi’s lap in the back of some getaway car or another. Sometimes, sometimes.      

Just then, Kokichi was awake and waiting for Shuichi – still an “Ultimate Detective” according to especially desperate tabloids, even if not according to his new math teacher – to get out of school.  Shuichi wouldn’t be able to see him, but based on everything he’d said to Maki and Himiko Kokichi didn’t think he would mind the company.  They didn’t talk about Kokichi often, those guys, but sometimes Shuichi brought him up in a halting voice.  Talked about a comic he might have liked; talked about buying a snack that looked like something he’d pick out.  A little time had passed since Kokichi died and they’d ended the Danganronpa TV show.  He couldn’t be sure how much time, some days, but he thought Shuichi might have more warm thoughts than suspicious or angry ones about him, by now.  It was enough, wasn’t it?  It was enough to know some of Kokichi’s friends were safe and making new lives for themselves; it was enough to know he had someone to hang out with when the waiting got to be a little much.

He hadn’t died for nothing.  He had died to make this possible – Shuichi’s school life, Himiko’s latest fantasy series obsession.  Kokichi’s insides settled, when he thought about that.  He would have let out a long, slow breath, if he’d been able to truly breathe, and murmured, “ _Thank goodness_ ,” with all his heart behind the words.  But then what exactly was he waiting for? 

Well, outside of the obvious.  When Shuichi held the door for one of his classmates - a mousy girl with her hair in a loose bun, chirping something thankful on her way out - Kokichi waved at him. He called, “Hiya, Shuichi!  I’m freezing my ass off out here. Let’s get a move on already!” 

His voice sounded so hollow, even to his own ears.  Echoey, like it was coming from far away.  Kokichi’s voice never sounded like that while he was dreaming.  And you know…  He wasn’t cold, of course.  Not the way he would have been in life.  He was cold as if in retrospect, if it made any kind of sense at all.   He thought Shuichi would have known he was lying, if he could have heard him.

Shuichi came down the path, kicking at a little snow, wearing a grey scarf just sort of darker, more overcast, than his eyes.  He’d forgotten his gloves at home, so his hands were scrunched up deep in his pockets. He was shivering, but not too bad.  Kokichi shivered just a little, too. On purpose, to test it out. He trotted into line right next to Shuichi, reaching out a hand to mime swiping some snow off his shoulders.  His smile hurt, though it wasn’t like he had skin, or muscles, or anything. Nothing that honestly  _should_  hurt. 

Sometimes Kokichi thought about shifting his clothes, his looks, the way other ghosts did.  Those ancient warriors in business casual; those murdered hookers in gory diamonds and silk. But he was still wearing that D.I.C.E. suit fucking Tsumugi had designed; his chessboard scarf could hardly be expected to keep out a cold like this one.  But Shuichi had always known him like that.  If he caught a glimpse of Kokichi through the fog of death, wouldn’t he know him in an almost-straitjacket?  Wouldn’t he know him laughing and putting on a show, dashing around in the kind of shoes that would be sopping wet and absolutely full of snow if he were “real?” 

(And not just “real” like “not scripted for a fucked-up television show,” but “real” like Shuichi might worry he’d catch a cold.  He might scold him, and make sure he zipped up his coat, and - )

“So!  How was your day, Shuichi?  Same-old, same-old?  Did you do anything fun?  Ace a test, rob a bank?  Punch that douchebag Daisuke in the face all Kaito-style?” Kokichi kept his voice as cheerful as he could. He brushed one of his hands through Shuichi’s arm, like he could actually walk arm-in-arm with him. Going home together, squished up close with snow glinting in both their hair like tiny, stolen crystals.  The storm just drifted straight through Kokichi, though, as if he were a stubborn, boy-shaped patch of air. Which, maybe,  _maybe_  he was...  But that was a cruel truth, wasn’t it?  

Kokichi knew Daisuke was a jerk because he’d seen the way he talked to Shuichi about Danganronpa.  About the killing game. He had a poster of Tsumugi in his bedroom, and had once tried to shove Shuichi into a locker. But it wasn’t like Shuichi was ever going to pick a fight with him that didn’t need to be picked for his own safety.  That was just the way he was, wasn’t it?  Shuichi brushed himself off, and helped pay the bills for an apartment he, Maki and Himiko shared.  He did what he had to do so they could go on with their day – he went to study for a Japanese history final like he  _couldn’t_  have just coasted off exploitative talk show interview cash for the rest of his life. 

Shuichi ducked down to the train station beneath the street, after a while; he swiped his card and made his way onto the train.  Kokichi strode right next to him – he smirked a little when a stiff-looking man shuddered, getting passed through by a ghost.  Yes, he was  _that_  kind of spirit, even if he couldn’t summon up the energy to knock anything over yet.  So at least he wasn’t a poltergeist?  Those guys were high-maintenance even among the dead.  Korekiyo’d studied that stuff, of course, and he probably would have expected Kokichi to become a poltergeist if they’d ever talked about what sort of ghosts they’d be.  Not like  _that_  came up organically in conversation a lot, though, even during a death game. 

On the train, Shuichi put his headphones in and leaned his head back against the wall.  He let his eyes flicker shut and breathed softly – Kokichi guessed he was either planning what to cook that night or going back over a list of homework he had to do.  Other passengers shifted all around them, sometimes whispering about Shuichi and nudging each other too hard in the ribs, sometimes minding their own business.  Plenty of people passed straight through Kokichi, reaching into his head to get at a handrail or something.  Used to be he would have scooted away from their grabby fingers at least sometimes, but now he just didn’t even bother.     

“Hey, hey, what’re you listening to?” Kokichi asked. He peeked at Shuichi’s phone, and then shook his head. “You know, I’ve never heard that band.”

The longer they went on like this, the more bands Shuichi would get into that Kokichi didn’t know.  That was another cruel truth.  And Shuichi would start looking older, too – he’d be a dapper silver fox, someday, Kokichi suspected, smiling shyly and letting everybody go through the door before him as he stood out in the snow.  Things would change, because they had to.  Once, Kokichi would have said a world without change was ridiculously boring, but now he watched Shuichi’s hand and imagined someone else slipping a wedding band on it. 

There was nothing he could do, was there?  He wasn’t about to possess Shuichi like Korekiyo’s scripted, probably-fake sister.      

Why couldn’t Kokichi just let himself dream?  It would’ve been kinder.  Maybe it would be a lie, sure, but if Kokichi didn’t know the value of “kind lies” what did he even know?  He’d been scripted that way, just like he knew he adored his gang, just like he knew he loved certain kinds of soda before he’d even taken a sip. 

But then, Kokichi hated being lied to, no matter how many lies he told, himself. Didn’t he? Probably?  Then maybe that was why things were coming together the way they were. 

There were other spirits on the subway, too, of course.  Sometimes they stalked strangers out into the world, hungry for a little drink of life; sometimes they stood on the rails and let train after train pass through them.  Remembering pain, or those last screaming seconds of their humanity.  Kokichi didn’t meet any of their eyes, though he knew they saw him, too.  Maybe _they_ were feeling sorry for _him_ , still trying to chat up a living boy.   

Kokichi had shuffled his feet awkwardly while Shuichi checked around his killing school dorm room for clues.  He’d watched his own motive video again over Shuichi’s shoulder; he’d crowed, “Yes!  _Yes_!” when the Ultimate Detective found the hint that was both a will and something more.  Yes, in Monokuma’s _face_!  Kokichi’d babbled explanations for the horse head in his bed and the wax Rantaro swinging lazily from his ceiling.  He’d cheered Shuichi on while he was tearing the Danganronpa-watching world’s argument a new one, and he’d scanned him for blood stains and bruises when he climbed dizzily, breathlessly out of the rubble their Ultimate Academy left behind.  He’d been _there_.   

But now, it was over.  Wasn’t it?  Now, Shuichi was heading off the train at his stop, swinging his arms at his sides, and Kokichi was thinking about what it would be like to hold his hand.  He imagined himself wearing the bandage Shuichi had given him, sometimes – when he’d tended to his wound after Kokichi’d stabbed himself probably-on-purpose during their knife game.  That cut had healed up way before Kokichi actually died, but it was a nice reminder of what he’d been to someone. What he maybe still was, on some drifting, gothic romance novel-y level, despite those words Shuichi had thrown at him when he was trying to be the mastermind.   Kokichi was wearing the bandage, that day.  Wearing the knife-wound, too, though he would have lied and laughed it away if anyone had ever asked.  Covered it up really quickly with his sleeve.

Kokichi had stolen Shuichi’s heart back then, he sometimes said.  Reminding Shuichi, you know.   Or maybe he’d just revealed how his own heart had been stolen, and the Ultimate Detective had laughed awkwardly because he wasn’t sure what else to say.  That thought sucked, but Kokichi couldn’t chase it away, sometimes.

Shuichi’s apartment building had one of those wrought iron rail-posts, dangling icicles like clattering monster claws, or maybe some eccentric glass jewelry.  They caught the light, stinging Kokichi’s eyes though really – _really_ – they had no right to do something like that.  The metal rail would have burned to the touch, and all the windows crackled with frost.  Intricate patterns worked into the ice, mirroring flowers the way the dead mirrored life.  The world felt heavy and far, far more solid than Kokichi himself. 

Shuichi climbed up the apartment’s stairs and over to his door. Their sky was a thick, churning curtain of white.  It looked like it was drooping, stretching itself down in a blanket to wrap them all up nice and tender – or else, you know. Just smother absolutely everyone.  Smother the wreckage of the Team Danganronpa studio; smother Shuichi’s winter boot footprints, so homey and careful.  It was good he was cautious, climbing up all those stairs. If he’d slipped, the only person there hanging out with him wouldn’t have been able to catch him. 

Kokichi stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at Shuichi, at his hunched shoulders and long, dark coat.  He thought about how the Ultimate Detective had puzzled over his research lab – wondering why there was something as innocent as a model helicopter there, wondering what sort of diabolical gang could use so many pairs of goofy mustache glasses.  Hopefully Shuichi still thought about all that stuff, sometimes.  Kokichi would have rather had Shuichi imagine what he looked like in those oh-so-evil disguises than keep on picturing him the way he’d died.  Or...  Even worse...  Stop picturing him at all. 

Sometimes it felt dirty, easing into Shuichi’s home like a shadow, even though he kept to the common areas and didn’t have enough ghostly powers to break anything even if he wanted to.  See again: not a poltergeist.  So he would’ve just been making fun of Shuichi’s old man slippers and trying to keep himself solid enough to hop up on the counter…  Sometimes it hurt, being there and nowhere at all.  Now that they’d reached the apartment, Kokichi thought that this must be one of those hurting days.  If he went inside he would only end up talking to himself, answering questions that weren’t directed to him.  Trying not to feel too creepy about lingering where he hadn’t been invited.  Shuichi had said they were going to escape and live; he said he was going to do what he could so his friends could rest in peace.  Kokichi shouldn’t be wandering, then, should he?  Shuichi had counted him as someone cherished, by the end.  Someone to mourn, and avenge.  But given that he _was_ wandering, he wouldn’t have been turned away at the door…  Right?   

Sometimes Kokichi had used comedy movies to still his frantic mind, back in the living world.  He wasn’t sure what to do, now, with this new kind of restlessness – maybe one day he’d drift away and then just not wake up?  Maybe one day he’d jolt awake and all his friends would be together, again, in an actual high school?  Another chance: a heaven.  He’d have biology or something with Shuichi, and they’d stop for fancy desserts after class sometimes.  No one would die.  No one would die, and no one would get left behind.  At one point, Kokichi might have thought “heaven as a high school” was a really lame concept, but he daydreamed about it, now.  Doodling nonsense in Shuichi’s notebooks; helping Gonta with presentations or speeches or whatever to win back his trust…

All kinds of things.  All kinds of lies.   

“Bye, then,” Kokichi offered up at Shuichi’s back - at his ruffled hair, at the keys he was rattling around in his pocket and preparing to shove in the door.  “I’ll come by again later – my secret evil organization and I are off to...  I dunno. Let’s say we’re draining the ocean, today.  Or replacing it with acid?  That sounds pretty ‘evil,’ right, Shuichi?” 

He waited a beat, and then said, “Right.”              

Sometimes, Kokichi reminded himself that Shuichi would have replied, if he could have.  The air smelled crisp and bare; no matter how hard Kokichi stomped, there would only ever be one set of footprints as Shuichi made his way home. 

Kokichi turned jauntily on his heel, and walked off into the snow that couldn’t touch him. Back to those hidden places where ghosts woke up after they’d been away inside their own heads for a while – old houses that rattled and breathed, bars with gory secrets seeped into their floorboards.   Back to that sometimes-dreaming.  It would be alright, he told himself.  Dreaming was cruel, in its own way, but the truth felt colder. 

If Shuichi glanced behind him...  Sort of sorry, sort of hopeful…  Kokichi didn’t notice.

(Yet.) 


End file.
